Death of the Hound
by mafiaman2442
Summary: Sandor Clegane lies dying by the side of the Trident after Arya Stark leaves him without gifting him mercy, when a mysterious stranger rides up in his final moments.


Sandor

The bark of the tree was rough against his back, but he barely felt it now. The trees swayed restlessly in the wind, whispering to him gently as if they were telling him to just close his eyes and sleep. Sandor Clegane had lost track of time, had it been an hour or more since the little she-wolf left him, refusing to give him the gift of mercy. He probably didn't even have the strength to lift his arms if he tried, so he continued to sit propped up against the tree taking in the scene in front of him. The Hound had never feared death, and it would just come as a mercy at this point, but something still stayed him from closing his eyes and drifting to sleep. After all he would probably be food for crows within the hour, why rush it?

The wind was cool against his burnt face. Harsh fever had set in and his smallclothes were sopping with sweat. His limbs were stiff and his wounds ached but it's almost as if he had withdrawn from his body to dwell in his head. The ground was soft and muddy, but instead of bringing discomfort it felt like a cushion. The scene in front of him wasn't magnificent but it wasn't quite droll either. He could hear the trident behind him somewhere, constantly flowing and moving away yet never fading. In front of him was the twisty road that had brought him to this tree, and he knew he wouldn't be continuing on down it to Saltpans.

He had lived through the boy-king, whose favorite activities were mounting heads on a wall and beating small girls with his own guard, just to die to some fucking bloody mummers. Maybe the boy-king would be waiting for him in the deepest hell and Sandor could beat _him_ for a change. The she-wolf had warned him from going into that inn. He had known what he would find yet he still went and was drunk by the time the swords came out. Some would call that a death wish, The Hound called it normalcy. He had always lived his life without being cautious. Life was too damn short to prance about like a deer, fleeing from every sound in the forest like so many did. Especially the cravens in Kings Landing like the eunuch.

Sandor wished he might have lived long enough to see the Spider in the ground, maybe even by his own hand. But the only regret the Hound carried was that he couldn't kill his brother in the end. He had lived his life imagining the day he put his sword through Gregor's chest. He would lean forward and whisper "see you in hell", then twist his sword and watch the Mountain fall. But now he would be forced to wait in a fiery hell for his brother to meet him there for their long awaited 'reunion'. Sandor tried to shift his position but instead just a cry of pain came from him.

It was only then did he realize a single rider was coming down the road toward him. The man was dressed in grey robes secured by a woven belt. He rode up quickly looking at Sandor sympathetically, but there was also a hint of unease in his eyes.

"Looks like you may need some assistance ser." The man dismounted and studied him from head to toe. The man was built like a knight but dressed like a septon.

"I am no ser." Sandor's throat was as dry as Dorne and his words came out with a rasping sound. "Got any wine?" The stranger eyed his helm sitting close by. It was a monstrous thing, a snarling dogs head baring its fangs. It was his prized possession.

"You are the Hound." It was not a question.

"Soon be I _was _the Hound. Are you going to let me die thirsty? If so just kill me now." The man gave him one last reproachful look than went and grabbed a skin from his saddlebags. He handed it down to Sandor and he took the stopper out and took a long whiff from the top. No cheap wine had ever smelled so good. "Thought I was going to die sober, _that _would have been a tragedy." He took a long drag from the skin and it dribbled down his chin. It spread through him quickly.

"One finds many things on the road, some good most bad during these times but I don't know where this quite falls. I've heard mighty tales of the Hounds' doings and they all agree that you are a rough and bitter man but not a cruel one like one hears of your brother. When I was a knight I occasionally dreamed of slaying one or maybe both of the mighty Clegane's. Funny how things work out aren't they? I dreamt of killing you and you fall right into my lap ripe for mercy of a blade, but now that you might welcome death, I cannot grant it."

"You septons and your bloody fucking honor and vows. How does honor mean anything in times like these? Honor is for fools who have a death wish. That and cravens. Pick up my blade and give me mercy with my own steel or leave me like the craven you probably are and let me die alone." Sandor took another long draw from the skin and now his head was swimming pleasantly. A feeling he knew well and welcomed with open arms.

"I cannot give you what you want but perhaps I can give you peace and solace." He had a small knowing smile on his face.

"Peace and solace," Sandor tasted the words and they were bitter in his mouth. "I've never had either and you can go bugger off with your peace and solace." Instead the man grabbed another skin from his saddlebag and knelt over him. He turned the skin over and cool water rushed over Sandor's burning brow. The stranger went back to his saddlebags and drew a jar and linen from them. The stranger set to work on his swelled and discolored wound. It was soon covered with a cool poultice and although it was too late for healing it felt good against his burning skin. "Valiant effort but useless" Sandor muttered.

"Perhaps, but a man can only try." The stranger looked down at the ground. He was built like a knight but he still did have a friendly enough face for being a septon.

"A man can _do, _The Stranger would probably thank you for giving me to him so that I may burn sooner."

"You truly believe you will go to a horrible hell, yet even now you refuse to accept the hope you may have. The Father may well be judging you soon, don't you want some solace of confession upon your judgment?" The stranger looked at him his eyes filled with genuine curiosity as if the Hound was another being he couldn't quite grasp.

"I know what I've done, nothing will help me now but a sword." The man ignored the hint.

"Tales range of your doing but I have heard good ones, certainly the father will not overlook those deeds." The stranger put his hand on Sandor's, but he shrugged it off.

"I'm damned and we both know it, the only solace I need is that my brother is also." Sandor drained the last of the wine and threw the skin aside. "He burned me and now we shall burn together, just wish I could have sent him down there myself."

"Killing your own brother…that is…" the man shuddered "a horrible sin, no man is more cursed than a kinslayer in the god's eyes."

"You want to know a horrible sin? This." Sandor gestured toward the burnt and scarred half of his face. "My brother could have killed me instead and it would have been more merciful, but this? I haven't had someone look at me without fear or disgust in their eyes since I was a boy. No one wants the company of someone with a face like _this_." The stranger's eyes were on the ground. "Look at me" urged Sandor. His eyes quickly flickered to the Hound's face for a moment but fled back to the ground just as fast. "LOOK AT ME!" The stranger jumped at the sudden ferocity in his voice but his eyes met Sandor's and lingered, his eyes said all Sandor needed to know. The fear and disgust was there as always, even when Sandor couldn't have harmed him if he tried.

"I see the disgust in your eyes, all you see is a monster. Something that doesn't belong in this perfect world your gods made. The Mother had no mercy on me when my FACE was half buried in coals. The Crone gave me no wisdom whenever I needed it. I was The Strangers tool. I brought death with my sword and fear with my face." Sandor realized his eyes were swimming. He looked down and blinked away the wetness, embarrassed for his weakness in front of this stranger.

"That is where you err ser. I don't see a monster, I see the face of The Hound. An animal whose own brother scarred him for life. Who was scorned wherever he went by those who might have been companions. A creature who was tortured and tormented by anyone who came in contact with him." The man was still looking at his face, but his eyes shifted from the burnt portions to the skin still intact.

"But I also see Sandor Clegane. A man who was overshadowed by the Hound wherever he went but still tried to be a decent person. A broken man. Broken by your brother, by the people around you, but most of all broken by the Hound who manifested and grew inside you. The strangers eyes kept locked on Sandor's. Once again he brought his hand up to Sandor's shoulder, but this time he made no move to shake it off. As if talking had drained him of whatever he had left inside him.

"I know The Father will judge Sandor Clegane for what is truly inside you and just what is on the surface. Do not pass yourself off so quickly, I see hope for you yet, but now it is time for you to rest Sandor Clegane you have hurt long enough as it is."

That sounded like a good idea. His body was just numb now accept for the dull ache at his wounds. The wine made him feel exceptionally tired and sleep sounded peaceful. The stranger never removed his arm from his shoulder and looked in his eyes as the world started to dim. The Hound closed his eyes for the last time.


End file.
